I forgot something last night.
It's one of those things that rowels you to lie awake in your bed for hours, all glossy-eyed as you stare at the ceiling, raking your head for that one ... piece ... of ... information.
You figure that tomorrow won't be right without the news because goshdarnit, it's important!
I laid on my back for what seemed an eternity, and that "something" I happened to forget quickly managed to change into "something" I hated. I eventually fell into a subconscious daze until the sunlight rushed into my dorm windows at 6:43 AM.
I checked the computer and, well ... the "something" that I forgot was John R. Wooden. Yes, I flunked on basketball's most respected and honored man, ever.
All last night, I ran through the Nelson basketball file from the day before: Carmello Anthony, Latrell Sprewell, George Karl, Bob Huggins (again), Michael Finley (again), Brandon Rush (finally!). Still nothing. It was painful. It was downright embarrassing. It was vexing and troublesome.
And the worst part of it all: forgetting Wooden was far too simple.
"Shocked and saddened."
"I must withdraw my support."
"The club has a legal duty to defend its trademarks."
"I'm feeling better than I have a right to feel at my age."
"I never say never."
Last night, soundbites ran through my brain as if my ears were L.A. and New York and everything in between was Route 66. They came with enough frequency to convince me of my thought's legitimacy, but also continued to remind me of my inadequate memory.
Suddenly, it would fly in one ear ... and I'd lose it again out the other.
I started calling the soundbites demons.
And, of course, the demons didn't stop there. All the while, they sat on my shoulder, whispering I was crazy. They said I was looking for nothing. That I was squeezing my brain because of psychological insecurity. They said I wasted time.
That I worried about nothing.
The demons came at the most random moments. They tormented me because I knew that I once knew. I understood that I once understood. I recognized that I once recognized.
But why all this worrying in the first place? Why then? What for?
Looking back, the answer is obvious: I should've paid more attention in class.
It's one of the (seemingly 50) Elements of News journalists are taught over and over until their brains practically ooze the five, six, and 10 o'clock newscasts.
It's called prominence.
John R. Wooden is a name recognized by the sport unconscious as well as sports cognoscenti's. Wooden's name is in the news solely because his name is Wooden. He, quite simply, is prominent.
That's why I couldn't quite remember, but still had the nagging demons running through my head.
Is it really top news that Wooden won't present the eponymic collegiate player of the year award? The legend will be 95-years-old when March roles around again. He's got to call it quits sometime. We all knew that.
Heck, the award's name isn't going to change or anything!
If the award was named after anyone else, money says ESPN wouldn't even mention it.
So when I saw that computer this morning, I could only think one thing: those demons weren't really demonic.
They were trying to warn me. I worried about nothing.
Leave a Comment